


Cold Bohemian Hell

by permanent_marker



Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: Angst, EDNOS, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Eating Disorders, HUGE ASS TRIGGER WARNING, Heroin, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Smoking, Trans!Mark Cohen, Vent Piece, im sorry, ofsed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 13:01:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14853249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/permanent_marker/pseuds/permanent_marker
Summary: Collins is out of the country. Roger is in rehab. April has killed herself. Benny is married. Mark is alone. Loneliness seems to be the perfect environment to spin out of control in.





	Cold Bohemian Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Before you carry on reading please understand that this piece of writing is a vent piece, and could very well be extremely triggering to certain readers. So read with caution and please make sure you heed the tags! If you see anything that you think should be tagged then please comment below to inform me!
> 
>  
> 
> As always - please comment and give me feedback! It is s o helpful!

Mark knew the exact day he’d stopped -  _ not stopped  _ \- it was exactly three months after April died, two weeks after Roger was admitted to Rehab, one  _ day  _ after Collins left town. It seemed - foolish to be eating - to be concerned with himself when everything was such a mess. His friends were in no particular order: dead, busy, and dying. Besides, it was much easier to afford smack when he didn’t have to pay for food. He should feel guilty. This- this stuff was the reason Roger had to go away. But it just felt so  _ goddamn good. _ And it was just until Roger got back anyway.

He was on the bed, lying in those corduroys which had definitely not been changed for a good two weeks. He had no-one to look good for. He arched his back, pressing his forehead back against the headboards as his hands made fair play of his chest, his ribs, his arms. Fingers surveyed a mess of uncleaned scars and track marks. Then moved to his chest. Trailing across his twin scars. The only happy ones. Then down, down, to his ribs. His breathing shallow as the tingle of his brittle nails against the jutting bones of his ribs and hips turned into scratching. Weak scratching. As much force as he could muster.

He had a revelation once, while shooting up on the couch, head lolling back, legs spread. How many of Roger’s old habits he’d picked up. They looked better on Roger. When Roger was sat like this on the couch, there was a girl between his legs. When Roger was shooting up, he dangled his legs off the balcony like he didn’t care. He didn’t. When Roger didn’t eat, he was protesting. Making a statement. 

When Mark did it, it was just pathetic.

Pathetic.  _ Pathetic.  _ The word lingered on the tip of his tongue, parting his lips. Not that he would say anything anyway. He doubted his voice worked anymore. 

Picking up his bad habits and making them look worse.  _ Sounds about right.  _

He was dying. He’d come to terms with that a long time ago. He should probably get it over with before Roger came back. Collins and Roger would be fine without him. They probably wouldn’t notice anyway. 

He groaned soundlessly off the bed, blundering into

Somewhere from beneath his ribcage came a hollow, bitter laugh. 

 

* * *

 

He knew he’d have to stop soon. His time was up. Roger was back tomorrow, and Mark’s heroin/razor blade marked body was bound to upset him (god bless his mother for never buying him anything but knitted sweaters). With his arms hidden, he only needed to dull the groaning of his stomach (he hadn't lost that much weight anyway). An apple would do. So he struggled himself off the bed, to the kitchen. 

His head span. So did everything else.

He didn’t think that much of it.

Not until.

Not until he felt himself falling. The dark and blurry vignetted his vision until reached the centre and all he felt was head against metal edge and wooden floor.

And then there was nothing.

 


End file.
